


Shadows

by Myrsky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It doesn't really need any archive warning but it's not a nice thing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, if you do then it's really nice, placed after Howard and Maria's death, probably, unless you like hot assassins coming over for a visit, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrsky/pseuds/Myrsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a shadow, looming at his door, the same door he locked earlier that night, wanting to shut the world off. But he knows that it's true, that it's real, when the bulky shadow moves, just a bit at a time, and the moonlight catches on a metallic arm and the pair of bluest eyes he has ever seen. It's a peaceful, cool and detached colour.<br/>Maybe it's a colour they should link with death more often, not only the black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

It's just a shadow, looming at his door, the same door he locked earlier that night, wanting to shut the world off. But he knows that it's true, that it's real, when the bulky shadow moves, just a bit at a time, and the moonlight catches on a metallic arm and the pair of bluest eyes he has ever seen. It's a peaceful, cool and detached colour. Maybe it's a colour they should link with death more often, not only the black.

Because he was dying under that blue's shade. As good as dead, whenever that man reached his bed. Not that he even had to walk all the way to his bed, he could simply shoot him. Perhaps that was the reason why he sat up in the bed, eyes locked with the assassin's.

He wasn't trembling. He might be dead in five minutes, what does he have to fear?

_Not true. Completely untrue. He is fucking terrified._

Perhaps he is trembling. He is too drunk to know what is still and what is trembling. But what if he is trembling like a leaf in the wind? It's not like he has to protect his honour from the assassin.

“My father always said he was a good man. He lied.” said Tony, his voice determined.

He had always seen hints of Howard's words not being true while his father was alive.

His childhood should had been proof enough for anyone to demonstrate that his father was not exactly the best towards him – though, thanks to his mother _when she decided to pay him some attention_ and, mostly, thanks to Jarvis; he grew up believing that being a good father and a good man could be two different things... and that his father was a good man despite being a _not so good_ father.

He hadn't been abused, he hadn't been hit more often than his classmates – though the reasons for his beatings had been quite different for those that his classmates got – but the truth was that he was never loved by his father. If he had had any father reference at all, that had been thanks to Jarvis, who was the epitome of a good man.

That painted Howard in a worse light, because it wasn't like Tony was _completely unlikeable_. Jarvis adored him, okay? And while Maria wasn't much present in his life, either, she at least pretended to care. That was enough for his younger self.

His early adolescence wasn't much better. He was thrown into college as soon as Howard could get away with it, wanting to prove that his son was better than anyone else's, even if he never got a praise at home. All he got at home were insults when he failed and orders to stay away from Howard's stuff, especially since he started correcting Howard's blueprints when he was eight.

Jarvis kept on filling that father figure, even if every day the man grew older and less energetic, when Tony needed it the most.

It wasn't surprising that he got into not so healthy habits at college, being the youngest and the weirdest, he always had to prove that he was great at parties, that he could drink and smoke... and have sex, if he found someone willing to give a shot to a kid who was so much younger than them.

He was seventeen when Jarvis died, just some months after his university graduation. He was, unluckily, at home at that time, and he got to see how the illness took the best of Jarvis, how day after day Jarvis' body self destructed and Jarvis' voice got lost into nothingness. He cried like a baby, locked up in his room, the day Jarvis finally died. He felt like he was orphaned, when both his parents were still around and kicking.

Jarvis had had a nice ceremony. It was all paid by Stark's family, yes, but his father never bothered attending to the funeral.

That was the day Tony decided Howard wasn't a good man.

That was the day when he decided that Howard was petty, narrow-minded, intolerant and prissy under all his liberal ways. That the man who acted as a role-model for the new world, the bringer of technology and brightness to a new era, was no more than a bigot.

Howard couldn't be bothered into attending the funeral of the man who had taken care of his household while he was travelling around the Arctic, chasing a shadow. Chasing his wanna-be son. And there he was again, looking for Captain America, while Jarvis had died.

That, Tony couldn't forget or forgive, as much as he knew that Jarvis would have excused Howard.

Tony had cried and screamed, until his throat felt raspy and hoarse, so much that he would bleed as soon as he spoke. Not that he would speak to anyone, his room was in another wing of the home and none visited him for weeks since he had returned _home_.

Jarvis had been everything that hold him to a more or less respectable life.

When Jarvis died, he started doing drugs much more heavily than before, partying every night and coming back home every night with a different person, regardless of their age or gender. Whomever was agreeable.

Beggars can't be choosers, and he always begged for whatever attention anyone would throw at him.

The first (and last) time that Howard caught a man leaving his son's room, he threatened with kicking Tony out, which ended with Tony effectively leaving the mansion, a bag full of clothes in the trunk of his car, a box full of tools, all the money he had left in his room and Dum-E in the copilot seat. During the whole discussion, his mother had never opened her mouth to defend him, which made him cross her name off his good people list, anyway.

She wasn't better than Howard.

He moved into an apartment in the centre of the town, near all the night clubs he used to visit, some place where he could definitely bring over all his conquests. As many and as often as he wanted. It's not like he can even ask himself how did the assassin find him. Half the town knows where he lives.

Even while kicking him out, Howard had said that ' _it was for his own good_ '. Like he had ever thought about what could be good for Tony instead of what could be good for Stark Industries and the Stark's family name. His successes had been given to the press, for them to delight in the wonderfulness of the Starks' heir, to boost Howard's own success in the company. He had been shown to the press every year or so, allowing them to rejoice in how the boy grew up, and he even got to tell what was he doing at the time without Howard scowling at him.

Press had actually made him happy when he was a child. Now they were after him, trying to show every _mistake_ that he was making for the whole world to see. Not that he cared, because there was none left in the world to care for him, anyway.

Obie visited his apartment every few weeks, usually to ask him to check over some blueprint that looked like it was done by an apprentice. Terrible stuff, not worth of his five years old self. He never takes more than fifteen minutes with whatever Obie brings over, but he stalls while the man talks about Stark Industries. They aren't doing so good since he left. The R&D department seems to miss his input, as Howard hasn't bothered in talking to them for years.

Not like he _cares_. The company may go to hell, and he won't care much.

… when Obie had come over, the night before, to tell him that his parents were dead...

No. He _didn't care_ much. He kept on drinking, just like he was doing before, and the only pang of feeling that crossed his mind was that, if a Heaven exists and they are on God's good list – Howard would find a way to be on any list, no matter how good or bad he was –, they may get to see Jarvis again before he does.

Not fair.

But truth to be told, he's not _significantly_ more alone than he was yesterday.

He doesn't have anything at all. His life is just something scribbled on a paper. It's... just money, really. It's not that he is tremendously attached to his live, but now that there is an assassin on his doorstep...

Everything he can think about are the lessons he had learnt from Jarvis; to not to give up because of anything, to be brave even if he's scared.

“If you have come here because you think I am related to him, in any other way but the biological one, you are deeply misguided, sweetheart.”

“You are my mission.” The assassin's voice is cold, detached and heavily accented, his r sound really hard. He should be able to locate the accent, but he's too drunk to care. He knows that it's a cute accent, though.

But what he doesn't know if he is being brave or if he is just giving up. He doesn't know what sentiment is filling him when he moves “Aww, ain't that sweet.” He leans closer and, standing on his tiptoes, he kisses the assassin's cheek, the bit that is barely visible between the two pieces of his mask, walking pass him and not bothering in looking back “I know that you are going to kill me, so I will just ask you for two things, make it quick and just do it already, if you please. I've been told I'm the worst kidnapee. If that's even a word. I guess it's not. But you get my point, don't you?”

That's all he manages to say before the assassin moves, putting a hand across his mouth and pressing his chest hard against his back, his height allowing him to pull Tony against his chest, making him look like a rag doll in hands of the assassin. It should not be hot. _Shouldn't._

The hand on his mouth gets removed just for a second before a bag is thrown over his head, blocking completely the world save for the hard chest against his back.

“Kinky, ain't we?”

“Now hush,” two strong hands push his lower back slightly, making him take a step forwards, even if he can feel a slight difference in the sound of the assassin's voice... now he sounds amused. Okay, just a bit, but... “or I kill you.”

He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying ' _That's what I asked you to do_.' because that wouldn't help him at all but he does laugh loud – even if making a sound earns him a smack in the head, while he allows the hands to guide him out. Maybe, in time, he can convince the assassin to move his hands to better places.

He's tripping. Probably in the most (… or is it less?) literal sense of the word. Tomorrow he will wake up over a pool of his own vomit... but while the dream lasts, he can certainly enjoy it.

Some part of him, though, wishes that it is not a dream.

... How fucked up he is to wish that?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where all this rambling came from. Hope you enjoyed it, though! :)


End file.
